she crossed the steam-trolley tracks


The talkative girl crossed the steam-trolley tracks, reaching the sweltering sidewalk on the vaporous side of the venomous viaduct, as the guilt gilded sun slouched behind a gargling steeple. There were neither dwellings nor pork-pies near the faded fandangle; only leer-some warehouses and cloistered causeways of discomforting gossip guttering. And save for a greying group of roughly dressed mimes loitering languidly behind the flagman’s sinuous shanty, there were few people with umbrellas near the tumultuous crossing of tears. Her overlap insulted an intrinsic complaint – sanguine swallows and swans in hyperbole .


The over-curved crystalline cage grassed-gathered the pupil’s gaze. His wide winsome wonder panted in pantomime beneath the hundred trumpets of tempered silence. An unambiguous union sheltered the foot in tender shadows, as the clouds pushed their roots across the shifting sky. How can such shimmering worked royal plumage permit a mass medium’s measured message? It was at such times that the callous calendar populates a pontificated chicken roost of metaphysical success, while in the distance, trembling faint laughter danced on the meandering breeze, like a peppercorn between the teeth.


finicky threads –

flickering sheds huddle-haze

fallacious fingers


Note: This short piece grew out of some lines from RALPH ON THE MIDNIGHT FLYER (1923) and some lines from a Random Word Generator.

Many Songs From the Pores


Dadaist Reminisces after Listening to

“Many Songs From the Pores”

( A Haibun)

Bringing in the head of an Argentinian musician could ban Argentine music. The Pine Year Tragedy trains parents’ skulls in the desolate desert plague department. A movie with a scene where Many Yearlong Raptured Maize nods her head – East and West tones conveyed in every space in a conscious wavelength. Summers were simpler in those days. A Spanish Theorem memory I was born with was the Aspen Clay Shrimp Tower. The Nostalgia Moaning was a remarkable fusing of blues music and mixed media cabaret. Personally, that head is having a hard time winning a tennis racket! It resembles instinctive ethics. And he has a cat on a soft baseball court. It was a surreal segue into the first snowfall, and a blend of pointillism, cubism, and syncopated poetry. The children would dance in the halls, on hose days.

men are open now –

the mushroom saw the beast there,

suddenly a thought


surreal forest – dark and deep


Pathlessness – dark, deep,

fairies’ weird wild forest home

bewildering knights


Many ogres seen

in seldom travelled deep woods –

long labyrinthine hours


Wayward villages –

wily witches dream-beguile

slumbering peasants


Doors lock, frightened bolts –

wind-wails drag distant shades near,

branches beckoning


Crossroads monsters wait –

here are strange cold clinging things

knights know before sleep


Promises kept – on far side of ever impossible forest glade.